RIBUS 7

by Shae Mills

  Chapter 19

  Korba sat on the floor, slumped against the wall of the dimly lit cavernous room. His mind traced endlessly over his feelings for Chelan. His thoughts of her ranged from those that made him feel warm and heady through those that made him melancholy and angry.

  He reflected on his culture's ways and laws, comparing them to what he had read about those of Calley, and he knew that his world and the girl's were more than literally light-years apart. He still did not understand why he had chosen to spare the young alien, or why he had given a portion of his heart to her so quickly, but it seemed that it did not matter now. Whether she lived or died, he felt that it was best that they remained separate and apart. For the Empire's greatest Warlord, its Overlord, to choose an alien for a mate was beyond all comprehension and broke every law governing his people's lives. And for him to expect her to adapt to such foreign ways, and the harshness and brutality of his life and career, was simply cruel.

  Korba drew one knee up and rested his elbow on it, his head slumped against his fist. No matter how many times he reviewed this logic, it did little to console him or to quell the void within his chest. Yet, his choice was clear. He was immersed in a critical mission. He had no time to become involved with anyone, no matter what her race, and he could certainly not afford the emotional drain that Chelan elicited.

  Slowly, as if burdened by weights, he rose to his feet. As he approached the Command Center he found himself unable to pass by his quarters without being drawn up inside. Apprehensively, he ascended the stairs. Korba's eyes made a brief pass over the room as he neared his bed. He dared to look down, suddenly haunted by the sight of the remains of her soiled and torn gown cast across the linens. He touched the dress. It was stiff with the remnants of salt from her fever, and Korba knew now that the illness was upon her even before their struggle. He had rejected her for words she may or may not have been aware she was speaking.

  He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed as if not to disturb Chelan's final resting place. He crumpled the gown in his hands and raised it to his face. He could detect the full range of her emotions through the scent, from whispers of sweetness through odors of fear and sickness.

  Korba tipped his head back, his thoughts tumbling. Then he closed his eyes, his chest aching. Only a miracle would save her now.

  Letting the dress drop to the floor, he stood abruptly, shaking the thoughts of despair from his mind. He had to get back to work. He had to get back to the Bridge. And he had to get away from his memories of her.

  * * *

  Dar stood over Chelan, her body still immersed in the cool liquid. Fremma sat on a chair not far away and watched the Warlord closely.

  Stose burst into the room, breaking the morbid silence. "Is she still with us?"

  Dar nodded.

  "Good," said Stose, visibly relieved. "Okay, I'm going to increase the antivirals. They don't seem to be hurting her." He began preparing another syringe.

  "Do you think they'll work?" asked Dar.

  Stose inserted the needle into the IV bag. "They might. The good news is they haven't killed her so far."

  Dar turned away, his hands on his hips. "Fremma."

  "Yes, my Lord," replied Fremma, standing.

  "I have to return to my ship. I've told Korba of Chelan's condition, and what he intends to do eludes me. In the meantime, stay here with her. When and if she stabilizes"—he hesitated, turning toward Chelan—"I want her transported to my quarters for her recovery. Nothing is to be said to Korba about this." Dar looked directly into Stose's eyes. "If he questions you as to her whereabouts, tell him to contact me directly. Any questions?" He looked at both men.

  Fremma nodded. "How do you want her transported?"

  "Place her in a sealed supply tube, obviously one with ample air for the journey. Take your own fighter and report to nobody. Page me directly when you plan to leave RIBUS 7. I will prepare my own personal hangar for your arrival."

  Fremma nodded to him.

  In approximately two hours, Fremma helped Stose lift Chelan's ashen body from the liquid and place her onto a bed in an isolation room. Stose checked each IV bag carefully and then recorded her temperature. Fremma watched intently as Stose buzzed busily around her, and then the doctor stopped suddenly, deep in thought.

  "What is it?" asked Fremma.

  Stose glanced at him and then to the girl. "I'm not sure if there's something the matter or not," he admitted. "Her body temperature is forty degrees, and that's down from what it was, but I don't know what her normal is for sure. She was thirty-seven degrees when she first came to us."

  Fremma moved closer to the woman and looked down into her tranquil face. "Does it matter?" he asked.

  "With Izan's disease it does. If we drop it too low, the virus will thrive, reproducing prolifically."

  Fremma stared across the room, his brow furrowed. "What's too low for us?"

  "We don't get the disease."

  "We don't now," replied Fremma. "But our not-so-distant ancestors did. I remember it from history lessons, as it nearly wiped out our forefathers at one time. And other cultures are rife with it. Surely there would be some mention of it in some of your medical history records."

  Stose smiled up at Fremma. The young warrior was right. Even though their body metabolisms were different, there was a good chance that the body temperature ideal for growth of the virus would be the same. Hopefully, the alien's metabolism aside, maybe he could simply address the virus's characteristics.

  If he remembered correctly, in the early stages of the disease, the body temperature was not critical. After a time, however, the strange virus seemed to mutate into a form that became rampant at a normal body temperature. At some point in between, the virus went temporarily into remission, tricking the body into thinking it had won the battle, and the person's body temperature would lower. It was then that all hell broke loose, and Stose wondered just where Chelan was in the progression of the disease. It was possible that her unfamiliar metabolism reacted to the virus differently and that any deliberate manipulation of her fever one way or another at the wrong time could spell disaster. He just hoped that the fine line could be struck between allowing the fever to rise without causing brain damage and not letting it fall below a critical point.

  Stose quickly headed toward the exit doors. Then he turned back to Fremma. "Watch her carefully, and let me know if her temperature changes from forty degrees. That seems to be the equilibrium she has reached for now."

  Fremma nodded to him and then turned his attention to the monitor above the bed that displayed all her vitals. Unthinking, he reached for Chelan's wrist. For some reason, feeling her pulse under his fingers seemed to assure him that all was right with the woman. He looked into her sunken face, remembering how pretty she had been the day Korba had asked him to watch her. Her beauty was still apparent, but it was marred by the illness that gnawed at her from within.

  Almost reluctant to let her go, he reached for a container and cloth and ran some fresh, tepid water. Slowly and tenderly, he washed her face and neck. Then he sat by her and repeatedly ran the cloth through her long, soiled hair. After a time, with patience and great care, the beautiful, golden-brown tresses he remembered emerged.

  Fremma sat back, looking at her as if he had never seen her before. She was long and slender now, her body reserves severely depleted. Even though some ribs had begun to show, she still maintained a softness not shown by Iceanean women. Fremma knew that would be because unlike his race she possessed a subcutaneous layer of fat, and he found the supple smoothness alluring and strangely appealing.

  Her muscle mass was far less, ounce for ounce, than that of his people, giving her a much more delicate appearance, yet Fremma knew from past experience with other delicate-looking beings that looks could often be deceiving.

  The warrior's eyes then moved over her body to her exquisitely full breasts, and he felt himself suck in a breath. They were far more generous than any Iceanean warrior
's. Centuries ago, when the breeders had begun their genetic selections for strength, they had found, for whatever reasons, that the women possessing the greatest muscle mass and strength ratio also had the lowest body fat. This, coupled with a unique hormonal combination, correlated to a small bust size. Even though the breast was considered erotic and highly desirable, it was expendable when breeding a race of warriors. That was not to say that the modern Iceanean female warrior did not possess a bustline, but the women in the general Iceanean population were often much more endowed. He had had no shortage of sexual interactions with women from both populations, and for his tastes the warrior's breast size was far from adequate.

  Fremma's attention then switched to her creamy porcelain skin. It, too, was attractive to him. He had spent all his life with his kind, and to him, the dark bronze skin of his people represented war and strife. Chelan's powdery whiteness made him feel that she represented all that was not conflict. She was peace and tranquility, and possessed a purity and cleanliness that brought with it no bloodshed.

  Fremma rubbed his jaw with his ebony-clad hand, his eyes moving over her protruding hipbones and to her femininity. The small nest of golden hair that concealed her depths left him warm. His women, like the men, were completely devoid of body hair, and the subtle concealment of her soft folds struck him as provocative and enticing. He closed his eyes against her as unexpectedly torrid thoughts pierced his disciplined mind.

  Stose's entry jarred him back to reality, and he jumped to his feet. A look of relief was plainly written over the doctor's face. "The critical temperature appears to be thirty-nine degrees. Now, let's just hope that any metabolic discrepancies she may have won't interfere with that."

  Fremma, too, felt a sense of relief flood over him, and he gazed down at Chelan. Gently he ran his gloved hand down her smooth cheek and over her lips. His fingers lingered there before trailing down her slender neck, feathering between her breasts and over her abdomen.

  Stose looked at Fremma's eyes and witnessed the spark within them. He knew then that yet another mighty Iceanean warrior had fallen prey to the beautiful and bewitching alien.

  The hours passed quickly, and Fremma used the sickbay computers to learn more about Calley's history, both its geologic history and cultural history. Fremma found the information fascinating and would no doubt question Chelan on her beliefs and her understanding of her world's events, past and present. The thought of questioning her suddenly struck him, and he realized that, in his heart, he knew that she would survive.

  The warmth of this revelation was shattered by the sound of Stose's voice calling to him. Fremma sprang up and ran into the recovery room. The doctor was standing over Chelan, staring into her face. He lifted his eyes, and Fremma could see the light within them.

  "The antivirals are working," Stose breathed. "She's fought the toughest battle she'll ever fight, and she's won." He smiled at Fremma.

  Fremma smiled back at the doctor. Then gently, he took her warm hand in his. Looking down at her long, slender fingers cradled in his powerful hands, his thoughts abruptly turned to Korba, and Fremma wondered if this indeed was the toughest battle she would ever have to fight.

  Chapter 20

  Chelan opened her eyes, straining against the blackness that surrounded her. Her lids felt heavy, weary, as though she had been up for days. Obviously she needed more sleep. Closing them, she shuffled onto her back and propped herself up against the pillows. She let out a long sigh. She lay still for a long time and then realized that, despite feeling completely drained, sleep was not going to return. Her mind began to wander aimlessly over a myriad of bizarre topics, her thoughts still not rooted firmly in reality.

  Suddenly, her eyes popped open as she remembered shouting something at Korba. She sprang into a sitting position, her breathing sporadic.

  "Shhh, take it easy," came a soft, low voice. Two strong hands gripped her shoulders and pushed her back against the pillows.

  It was only then that Chelan became aware of the presence sitting next to her. Her labored respirations eased slightly as she struggled to see the face behind the voice. The hands receded from her. "Korba?" she whispered.

  There was no answer, but she felt the man leave her side. Slowly, the room lights intensified, and Chelan squinted, shielding her eyes with her hands. The ebony-clad male resumed his place next to her. She withdrew her hands from her face and looked into the man's glowing eyes.

  "Hi. It's good to have you back with us. My name is Fremma."

  Chelan simply stared at him, not entirely sure if she believed what she was seeing. He seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Korba, the alive, azure eyes, the blue-black hair, and the handsome face. He was similar, yet he was different.

  "Fremma," she repeated quietly, her mind toiling to remember. "Ah," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "Yes, the elusive Fremma." She paused. "I believe you babysat me once."

  Fremma's large smile warmed her, and she returned it. But Chelan's smile waned as she studied him warily. "What do you mean, good to have you back with us?"

  "You've been ill for quite some time, young lady, with an illness known among star travelers as space fever."

  "Sick?" Chelan repeated in a whisper. She ran her hand through her tangled hair, visibly puzzled. She looked up at Fremma. "For how long?"

  "Doctor Stose estimated that you had been sick for a day, possibly two, before you were brought in for treatment. From then, you've been recovering for five days."

  Chelan stared at him in disbelief. She labored to capture fragments of memories. "I don't recall anything."

  "You wouldn't," said Fremma, rising quickly. He walked away from her to a bowl on a table. "That's one of the effects of the illness," he added as he picked up two objects.

  He returned and sat on the edge of the bed, presenting her with what Chelan thought was a green apple. She took the object and stared down at it.

  He smiled. "This is sana, a fruit native to our home planet. It's rich in nutrients and energy." He raised his piece and took a bite of it. "It will help you to gain your strength back quickly."

  Chelan glanced at him and then peered back at her own piece. It was totally smooth, a pale green in color, with no apparent blemishes or stems. Chelan continued to hold it nervously, feeling Fremma's expectant eyes on her. Apprehensively, she raised it to her lips. The skin yielded easily to her bite as she took her first taste. Her eyes widened as the sweet, cool taste permeated her senses.

  Fremma smiled at her as she rolled the creamy piece around in her mouth. The inside of the fruit was a pastel pink with the consistency of a thickly jelled pudding, and the flavor was that of a wonderfully sweet cherry-banana cross. "This is amazing," she exclaimed as she eagerly took her next bite.

  "They're a beautiful fruit, aren't they? Eat plenty," he urged. "There are a lot on board. Oh, but be careful. There is one small seed at the center, and its taste is not so pleasant. And that says nothing about what it will do to your stomach if you should swallow one. They're very caustic."

  Chelan glanced up at him and nodded her understanding. When both had finished, Chelan placed the perfectly round, black seed on the table next to her as Fremma passed her a wet cloth for her hands. "What other delicacies does your planet possess?" queried Chelan, a smile gracing her features.

  "Many, I assure you," smiled Fremma slyly, and he took the cloth from her and cleaned his own gloved hands.

  Chelan bit her lower lip. "Don't you ever take those things off?" she asked, eyeing the ever-present gloves.

  Fremma looked down at his hands as though he had never seen them before. "Sure we do, but most of the time, there is no need."

  "Don't your hands get hot? And what about your sense of touch?"

  "Ah," said Fremma. "The material of these suits breathes and allows excess moisture through, so the hands and the body rarely get too hot. Secondly, the material is extraordinarily strong, but extremely thin and sensitive. I can feel as well with my gloves on as w
ithout."

  Chelan looked at him skeptically, but decided to let the subject go. "When can I get up?"

  "As soon as you are able." He stood and extended a hand to her. "You may try now if you wish."

  Chelan hesitated and then pulled the blankets from herself slowly, not knowing what she was clothed in. But it appeared that she was in a white gown similar to the one Korba had given her, yet she knew it was not the same.

  She inched her legs over the bed and tentatively took Fremma's hand. She realized that her back, though stiff, no longer ached, a testament to her long bed rest. When she began to rise, Fremma slipped his hand under her arm and helped her to her feet. He held her steady as she regained her balance, but she wondered if she dared to try walking.

  As if reading her mind, Fremma moved to her side. His arm surrounded her waist, and he held her tightly to him. He urged her forward gently, and finally, she took a step. A sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips as she felt a portion of her strength returning. He carefully directed her toward the entrance of the quarters and took up more of her weight with his arm as they descended into the brightly lit Command Center. Once down into the central area, he faced her directly and knelt before her on one knee. "Are you feeling all right?"

  Chelan took a deep breath. "Yes," she uttered as she placed her hands on his broad shoulders for added support.

  Fremma smiled, realizing that she was not going to admit to her fatigue. With one arm he reached out and swung a chair in behind her. He sat her down carefully and watched as a sense of relief flowed over her pretty face.

  Quickly, he stood and wheeled another chair over for himself. "Are you okay now?" he asked, smiling.

  Chelan simply nodded. Then she looked down at her hands. "I've spent more time on my back in the last two months or so than I have in my entire life." Chelan looked up at the ceiling. "I'm pathetic," she lamented.